


i'll gain it all (for you)

by yesterday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Background Relationships, Incest, M/M, Mates, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 17:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13640757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday/pseuds/yesterday
Summary: In retrospect, maybe he always favoured Derek because werewolves had an inherent sense for these things. Mates, that was. Peter pressed his fingertips to his cheek, where the tingle from the electric point of contact from earlier lingered. He was sixteen today, and his mate was still a child.





	i'll gain it all (for you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BleedingBlueKunoichi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingBlueKunoichi/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Note: I changed the title from "river always finds the sea" because it was driving me crazy. Sorry for any confusion!

All mothers believe their children are destined for greatness, and Peter’s was no different. 

You are going to be great one day, my darling heart, she would say, with all the affection and fondness and unconditional love a mother has. My little wild thing, she called him. He was her youngest and brightest; they shared the same cheekbones and sharp slice of jaw and eyes. He was her in miniature and male, their dark curls a tumble and jumble together when Peter had his head rested on her shoulder. He adored her consumingly, because that was what Hales did. It was written in their DNA, encoded and wired into every fibre of their being. They never did anything by halves.

When she died— when she died ,because most things did, inevitably— Peter took to the preserve. His mourning song rose through the trees and went as high as the moon, on and on until not even his healing could keep up and his throat gave up, gone hoarse and raw, but it wasn’t enough. How could it ever be enough? Grief wasn’t a big enough word to contain his emotions. Neither was devastation. All those words, and not one sufficed. 

So he boxed it all up. Packed it away, left it to gather dust. His beloved mother: dead.

But before he could finish, Talia came to see him. Mud coated his legs, dark under his nails. Twigs and leaves were wound into his hair and clothes.

“I did what had to be done, Peter,” Talia said. She was standing as tall and proud as any dogwood tree, stretched out towards the sky. In the full bloom of her confidence and gained power, Peter never hated her more. 

He snarled, the bite of it building on itself until it was bursting from him. Talia flashed her eyes at them, blood red seeping into the deceptive doe dark of her eyes. The first warning sign. But Peter’s mother didn’t raise him to be a coward. He was her little wild thing, and now, with a crown of thorns on his head and the complicated anger of loss burning in his throat, he snapped his fangs at her. 

“Peter—”

“Leave me alone!” he growled, the last word pitching into a desperate howl before he shifted and ran. 

When he dragged himself home two days later, he tracked mud from the back door up the stairs, ruining the pristine carpet. The shower ran muddy, and he stood under it for an eternity. He came out of it dripping wet. The hollow of his heart that previously housed his grief was filling with something else, so hot it was cold. It was clarifying, anger. It sustained him, so he kept it and fed it like he would a stray he took in off the street, letting it grow and grow and grow. 

“I hate her,” he told his brother later that night. He had crawled in after the pack had settled down to sleep, everyone revolving around Peter, afraid they would be scorched if they got to close. But not Andrew.

“She’s the Alpha,” he whispered. Privacy was an illusion in a pack house.

“I’m going to be the Alpha one day,” Peter said. 

Andrew pressed his fingertips over Peter’s mouth like he could push the words back into his mouth. Peter didn’t hold it against him, didn’t bite and snap no matter how much he wanted to. Andrew was his brother and he loved him, he was afraid for him. A good beta was supposed to know his place. 

Peter was finding out that he wasn’t much good at being a beta or being good. 

But for tonight, he snuggled closer to his brother, the steady rhythm of his heart lulling him to sleep. 

Peter dreamed that night, but come morning, he couldn’t remember what about.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
In the meantime, Peter played at being good. The pack settled down again. Impossible for tensions to remain forever at their peak; for good things to last; for bad things to last. Regression to the mean. The blip on everyone’s radar reeled past in the neverending VHS of life, only there was no rewind button to bring them back to a point before. 

Which was fine by Peter. He couldn’t change the past, but one day he would change the future. 

Derek threw a wrench in his plans. 

Talia had a whole brood of children, bossy Laura the eldest, then William after her, and Cora the youngest. Derek was somewhere in between. He must have been born when Peter was, oh, eleven or so. A small baby with a dark head of hair and impressive eyebrows for a newborn. 

Everyone had taken turns meeting the newest pack member when he was born. They would brush a hand over his forehead, or tiny, newly formed hands. Cooed over him and cuddled him before handing him off to the next pack member. 

Peter didn’t. He held Derek for a requisite thirty seconds through his swaddling before handing him off to Andrew. Babies, at that age, were not of particular interest to him. Maybe when Derek was a little older and did something other than shit, cry, and sleep. 

So he can’t be blamed for mostly writing Derek off until a few years later. Around when Derek was getting the hang of not only walking, but full on barreling around the house, knocking into things and making a general nuisance of himself. 

Derek had been sliding down the banister at top speed (a forbidden activity in the Hale household, but a longstanding tradition too), and at the end of it, flew right off the damn thing and into Peter, who caught him out of reflex. Derek shrieked in delight, fat little limbs wrapping around Peter, subsiding into giggles when he rubbed his cheek against Peter’s. 

Peter froze. 

That was the thing about mate bonds. Sometimes they weren’t apparent until there was physical contact, and Peter’s entire world narrowed in those thirty seconds. He stared at the whorl of Derek’s hair, dark hair spiraling out around it, not quite registering what was going on around him.

“Again! Again, Uncle Peter!” Derek wriggled in his arms, pointing to the banister. 

“No,” Peter said automatically, “you know you aren’t allowed.” 

“But I wanna,” Derek whined. 

“I’ll let you have a slice of pie before dinner, how about that?” 

“With ice cream?” 

“Don’t tell your mom, and you can have ice cream and chocolate syrup on top,” Peter said, because what Talia didn’t know wouldn’t hurt. Derek had cheered and happily poured out enough drizzle on his ice cream that it gathered in a pool at the bottom of the bowl. He ended up with a sugar high and was bouncing off the walls by the time dinner rolled around, but all Peter could conjure up was a helpless fondness that was a direct product of Derek’s uncomplicated happiness. 

In retrospect, maybe he always favoured Derek because werewolves had an inherent sense for these things. Mates, that was. Peter pressed his fingertips to his cheek, where the tingle from the electric point of contact from earlier lingered. He was sixteen today, and his mate was still a child. 

But Derek was pack and that made it easy. He would never have to wonder where his mate was, never have to wonder when they would finally meet, never have to worry whether or not he was hurting, because he would see it all. He could love Derek like he always had, protect him because it was only right and what was done. 

And because Derek was his. It was as simple as that. 

If it meant altering his five year plan, well. Peter could work with that. 

He didn’t tell anyone about Derek. Peter hadn’t forgotten what happened to the last person who was his. He wouldn’t let Talia take something of his away again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It wasn’t like finding his mate meant he had to be monogamous, and in his mind, there was no doubting he loved Derek: the perfect, platonic love of unconditionality. He carried on with his life like he always had, but with some of his edges smoothed out. There was a security in knowing that he had someone who was wholly his and no one else’s. 

Peter was careful not to give anything away, but he couldn’t help his bias towards Derek. It came naturally. Instinct to please and provide. He was Derek’s favourite, but Cora’s too. Good enough, as far as camouflage went. 

On full moon nights, control came easier to him. Oh, the anger was still there, and things hadn’t been the same between him and Talia since that night, but it was a banked fire. Waiting to be restoked when the time was right. Peter wasn’t an idiot; even at seventeen, he wasn’t prone to flights of fancy. He needed his pack. More than that, he loved them in spite of all their idiosyncrasies. Andrew was his closest conspirator, three years older, but lacking the same sort of drive that pushed Peter. He stuck close to the pack, and was always there after school, either looking after the kids or up to his arms in some art project or the other. 

The house was usually full to the brim; in a pack the Hales’ size, it was inevitable, no matter how many rooms there were. It wasn’t terrible. Peter liked it, the racket of his Uncle Hugh cheering on a game in the living room, his aunt right there beside him. Derek and Cora colouring in the kitchen (“No, Cora, don’t eat the green crayon”). Laura trying to baby alpha Andrew into something or the other. Will was out in the garden with Aunt Sonia, rooting about in the dirt. 

They lived quietly and peacefully. Peter flourished at school, charming and flirting with his classmates, relishing in the squeak of his runners on the basketball court and the perfect swish of the ball through the hoop. 

Then the hunters came into town. 

Someone— maybe his Uncle Hugh— scented them in town. Hunters had a distinct scent, impossible to hide. Cold. The crackle of electricity and bitter chill of gunmetal and wolfsbane. 

“Don’t do anything to catch their attention, and they’ll leave us alone,” Talia said during that evening’s pack meeting. “And if something does happen, remember what we’ve always done: we hide and we heal. We don’t lead them back here.” 

Everyone murmured in assent. The worst thing that could happen was hunters in their den. 

“Why are they here?” asked Andrew. 

Peter glanced at Talia, who pursed her lips and said, “It’s too soon to tell. We’ll see soon enough.” 

Soon enough turned out to be the following week, because there was a hunter in Peter’s Chemistry class by the name of Chris Argent, and he was ruthlessly handsome. Annoying, too. Kept trying to rile Peter up, deliberately messing up the lab they were working on until Peter stuck his hand (and nose, too, if he was being honest) up in the air because if he worked with Argent a minute longer, he was going to pour sulfuric acid all over him. 

Peter didn’t lose control. It was imperative that he didn’t, because losing control was tantamount to suicide under the wrong circumstances, and dangerous to those around him.

“Wait,” Chris Argent said, having caught up to Peter and his furious departure from the classroom as soon as the bell rung. 

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Peter said coolly. “I haven’t done anything, hunter.” 

“Your control is good.” 

Peter scoffed, because of course it was. That didn’t even warrant a response. 

“Come on,” Argent said, “don’t be mad. I had to see if you’re a risk.” 

“And if I was, what were you going to do? Put me down in the middle of Chemistry? Go away.” 

“We’re not here to hunt your pack,” Argent said in a rush, still keeping pace with Peter. 

Peter paused, just barely inclining his head towards Argent. “Then why are you here?” 

“To keep the balance.” 

“You don’t need to talk to me to do that,” Peter said, and swept off to AP English. 

But as luck would have it, that wasn’t the last he saw of Chris Argent. They shared the same gym period, where Peter ignored his existence until the dodgeball game started. He took a vicious pleasure in nailing him in the head with the dodgeball. Worth the foul. 

Peter couldn’t say how it happened, exactly. When it went from Argent always watching him in class to furiously making out in a deserted classroom, hands everywhere and Peter half furious, but mostly fine with it, because look: he might as well get the practice in while he can. And if it happened to be with a baby hunter, hey. Keep your enemies close, right? 

(In retrospect, there probably was such thing as keeping your enemy too close.) 

Derek didn’t go to school yet, his control too fraught to be tested with six hour long days crammed into tiny rooms with a minimum of twenty other squishy children. Pack protocol meant that the younger werewolves were homeschooled until they had better control and weren’t in danger of revealing the supernatural to a class of kids, plus the teacher. 

But controlled doses of social contact were important. Peter ended up babysitting Derek and supervising him on these outing the majority of the time; it was obvious that Derek favoured him from how he always asked for him. 

Peter took him to the public library. Derek clung to his hand. He was an easy child to take care of, not all that fussy and quiet. Shy. It took coaxing to get him to say what he wanted when he wanted something, or someone observant to read the signs. Peter was going to give him the world one day.

“Want me to read to you?” Peter said after Derek had dragged him towards the children’s section of the library and let go only to return with a book clasped to his chest. 

“Do the voices!” Derek said, already plopping down onto one of the bean bag chairs. They read together for an hour, maybe an hour and a half before heading over to the cafe next door for something hot and sweet.

Peter pulled a bill from his wallet, and nudged Derek over to the short line. “Order for us, okay? I’ll get us a table.” 

Derek looked mutinous, gaze darting to the bar. “I don’t want to.” 

“You can do it,” Peter coaxed, “get your favourite, and get me the same.” 

He ruffled the top of Derek’s head and Derek pushed his forehead against him, headbutting Peter on the side. He nodded and squared his little shoulders, heading into the line. 

The bell over the door rang. Peter glanced towards the entrance absently. He had left his coat over the chair and was heading towards the bar to help Derek carry the drinks, but he realised who had come through the door. Chris. 

He ignored him, but Chris wouldn’t be ignored. After he and Derek were sat down with their drinks — and a cookie for Derek that Peter definitely did not say he could get, but couldn’t reproach him for, because he hadn’t said he couldn’t either— when Chris came over, smiling. Looking harmless in his jeans and worn soft shirt, shaking the rain out of his hair and from his jacket.

“Peter,” he said, and what the hell did Chris think he was doing? 

Peter scowled at him while Derek stopped eating, and pressed close to Peter, which only attracted Chris’s attention. Peter curled an arm around him. 

Chris added, “Who is this?” like he had any right to. And sure, Chris wasn’t bad for a hunter, but Peter didn’t want him anywhere near Derek. Not answering would just lead to Chris getting nosier. 

“My nephew,” Peter said after a pause. 

“Cute kid,” Chris said. 

Derek didn’t say anything, wide-eyed and mouth clamped shut. 

“Mind if I sit here?” Chris said. 

“Not at all,” said Peter, getting to his feet. Derek, taking his cue, did too. “We were just leaving.” 

“Come on, Peter, don’t be like that. I’m not going to do anything to you or a kid. You know that.” 

Peter shrugged, and left with Derek in tow. The rain had slowed to a faint drizzle. Derek’s hand was warm, clutched tight in Peter’s. 

“Was he a bad man?” Derek asked, once he was bundled in the back of Aunt Sonia’s car, borrowed for today. 

Peter’s fingers slipped on his seatbelt buckle. Christopher Argent wasn’t fundamentally bad. He was a product of his upbringing, much like Peter was. But how could he explain that to Derek? 

“No,” he said. “Remember how your mom was talking about the hunters in town? That was one of them. But he isn’t— he’s like the hunter in Little Red Riding Good. He’ll only take you away if you’re bad.”

“I haven’t been bad!”

“Then you’ll be all right,” Peter said, and hoped he was telling the truth. 

“If the hunter stole me, you’d come find me, right, Uncle Peter?” 

“Of course,” Peter said. 

Derek beamed from the rear view mirror. Peter, helpless, smiled back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“You should be more careful,” his Uncle Hugh told him. 

Peter glanced at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The Argent boy, of course,” Uncle Hugh said, ignoring the way Peter stiffened, lounging in his armchair, novel in hand. “Talia will have a fit if she catches wind of it.” 

“It’s just a bit of fun,” Peter said, because that really is all it is. He wasn’t ever going to get anywhere with Christopher Argent, not when he’s a hunter, and not when Peter’s already settled on who he does want.

“Of course.” 

Five minutes of silence passed by. It broke when Peter said thanks, and his uncle hummed in vague response. 

He cut contact with Chris a week later.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Peter couldn’t wait to leave Beacon Hills.

He didn’t want to, not exactly. Not when Derek was here and when leaving meant that he wouldn’t be under Peter’s watch, even though the pack would keep him safe. It wasn’t the same. But the constant watch Peter was under was stifling. Someone was always watching, keeping an eye on him, making sure Peter didn’t do anything that would endanger the pack, never mind that he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

Distance would help. Just a little bit. A school in the state where he could visit on the weekends if he wanted to. It was always in his plans to get a degree, make sure that he wouldn’t have to rely on the pack, on Talia, forever. Of course, he had made this plan before Derek happened, but that was only extra incentive. This way he would be able to look after Derek too in the future. 

His acceptance into Stanford was only expected. 

The pack threw him a going away party in late August. Peter was leaving in two days, most of his belongings already packed up into the back of a U-Haul. Honestly, him going away for school seemed more like an excuse for everyone to celebrate more than anything. Oh, sure, they’d miss him for a while, but fact was, the pack was large. They would fill that space up with each other, and anyway, it wasn’t like he was going to the other side of the world. Just downstate. 

It was a warm evening, with the kind of drowsy, lazy air that summer perpetuated. Peter’s brother-in-law, James, had pulled out the grill. One of the two picnic tables was weighed down by food, and James was making burgers. Peter’s aunts were heckling him on the sideline, trying to steal the patties straight off of the grill. The scent was mouthwatering.

Peter was sprawled out in one of the Adirondacks, a glass of cold iced tea in hand, condensation dripping down the sides. Andrew is sitting on the chair beside him, eating a burger on sourdough with red onion.

“It’s going to be quiet around here without you,” he said, wistful. 

“You could come with me,” Peter suggested. He wouldn’t mind Andrew coming along. 

Andrew shook his head. “I’m not like you, Peter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You know,” Andrew said, gesturing vaguely. “I’m happy here. Thinking about going away from the pack makes me all itchy. I don’t think I could do it, but it suits you. I think you’ll do well wherever you go. Whatever you decide to do— it’s like Mom always said. You're gonna be amazing one day.” 

Peter didn’t say anything for a while. Around them, he could hear his pack chattering. As usual, his attention focused in on Derek, who was arguing with Cora over something trivial and mundane. An argument he was likely to lose, because even at four years of age, Cora was a terror and a menace and a tyrant all in one. He would be back before long, and when he was, Derek would be— well, not grown up. But older. Part of him almost regretted not being here to see it. 

Like he predicted, Cora won the fight and bit Derek to boot, who ran over to Peter, clutching his arm to his chest like Cora had nearly torn it off instead of left behind the slowly fading impression of her teeth. A bit of blood had welled up, and Peter was a little impressed with Cora despite himself. Then he had an armful of crying boy to contend with. Andrew was already standing to go deal with Cora. 

Peter said to him while he was petting Derek’s head, “It’s only for a few years,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The night before Peter was set to leave, he woke up when someone crawled into his bed, a snarl startled right out of him. 

Wide, sea glass green eyes peered at him in the dark. Peter blinked the sleep from his eyes and breathed in Derek's scent, heart slowing down. He turned his face against his pillow, trying to curb his annoyance at being woken up in the middle of the night. Peter liked his beauty sleep. When he turned back, Derek had fistfuls of his shirt clenched in his little fingers.

“I don't want you to go,” Derek said, voice wobbly.

Peter sighed and rested his hand over the nape of Derek's neck. He squeezed gently. Derek went loose, but burrowed further against Peter's chest. 

“Why do you have to go?” 

“I'm not going to be gone forever,” Peter said. “And I'll be back to visit pretty often. You won't even miss me while I'm gone, you'll be so busy living your own life.” 

“But who's going to take me to the library? Mom is always busy, and Uncle Hugh wouldn't read anything with me last time, and Cora tries to eat the books, and—” 

“You know Andrew will take you if you ask him.”

Derek muttered mutinously under his breath, eyebrows gathering together. Peter knew the look. He cut him off. “Promise I'll call.” 

“Pinky promise?” 

“Pinky promise.” 

Derek looked at the pinky Peter offered, slowly letting go of Peter's shirt and raising his own hand.

“And promise you won't forget me,” Derek said.

“I would never,” Peter said, “You're mine, baby, and I never forget what's mine. I promise.” 

They linked pinkies, Derek with all the gravity and solemnity of a young boy who still believed promises were sacred; Peter with a vague ache in his chest, but also the overwhelming, calming fondness that resided in him like a deep well of water when it came to Derek. He would miss Derek. But he would be safest here, surrounded by the pack to watch and guard him.

Oath sworn, Derek pulled Peter's hand to his face and rubbed his cheek against his knuckles. He yawned, a flash of white teeth in the dark. 

Peter ruffled his hair. “Go to sleep, Derek.”

“Mmh,” Derek murmured, already halfway gone now that his worries had been assuaged. 

It was only as he was on the threshold of conscious and unconscious that he realised he hadn't made Derek promise the same— not to forget him while he was gone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Stanford wasn't home, but it had a different vibe from Beacon Hills, even if the town surrounding the campus wasn’t much more than a sleepy suburban college town. There wasn’t much to do, and Peter suspected he would have enjoyed the nightlife at Berkeley more, but he wasn’t here to play. Or at least that wasn’t his primary objective. It was a good thing he’d insisted on bringing his motorcycle, or he would have had a hell of a time getting around. 

He called home two weeks later, after he was settled in and in the swing of things. Derek had spoken to him, a little awkward and clipped over the phone. Peter could picture him clutching the plasticky receiver of the home phone to his ear, trying to figure out the right words to say. He could hear Andrew beside him, prodding Derek into giving a brief update on everything that happened in the two weeks since Peter had been gone. It wasn’t much. The usual family drama. But what Derek said wasn’t really important. Peter closed his eyes and let his voice wash over him. 

Life went on in a mixture of attending class, playing varsity basketball, pleased to find out that most of his classmates and professors were just as fond of a charming, smiling face as they had been back in Beacon Hills. 

He made regular phone calls home. Peter wouldn’t have been so diligent about checking in if not for Derek, or about returning to Beacon Hills for major holidays. The pack always felt more stifling when he returned, somehow even less privacy here than there was in his single dorm at college. But he wanted to see Derek and Andrew and even his Uncle Hugh, so he went. Plus, it was expected of him. There was no local pack in Palo Alto, but there were other supernaturals. Peter ran into a werecoyote of all things, eight months into his first year. 

It was a bit like witnessing Derek grow up in a series of snapshots, and everyone else changing and shifting like a montage as the years went by. 

Peter was in his fourth year when it happened. A sudden numbness seized him, a brief feeling of loss that compounded in his chest. He realised he was crying, but he couldn’t figure out why. When he called home, Talia’s husband answered. Said that nothing was happening, everyone was fine. It was the middle of midterm season, and Peter couldn’t exactly run off back to Beacon Hills, so he had to accept the answer. 

Then came winter break. 

He knew something was wrong as soon as he got inside the house. Andrew had grabbed him as soon as he came through the door, eyes pleading. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I couldn’t stop her.” 

“What?” Peter said. 

“Derek—”

“Peter,” Talia said, sweeping into the foyer from the hall. “Let’s talk in my office.” 

“Where’s Derek?” Peter said, dread unfurling in him. 

“Derek’s fine,” Andrew said hastily. He was clutching Peter’s wrist so hard that the bones were grinding together. 

“I want to see him first,” Peter said.

“Uncle Peter!” Derek came bowling from the hall, grinning and bouncing. “You’re back!”

Peter narrowed his eyes. Derek had stopped calling him uncle years ago. More importantly, when he got close enough for Peter to ruffle his hair and squeeze him on the shoulder, there was a terrible lack. The same echo of loss he had felt months ago, and he knew something was terribly wrong.

He whirled around to face Talia. “What did you do?”

Talia flashed her eyes at him, and Peter ground his teeth. Fought it for a moment while Andrew looked away from her and bared his neck. After another second, Peter reluctantly did the same.

“I’ll explain in my office,” she said.

What choice did Peter have? He followed her into her office. 

Their emissary, Deaton, was waiting inside. Peter narrowed his eyes at him. He didn’t sit even when Talia did, standing by the door. 

“When were you going to mention that Derek is your mate?” Talia said. 

Peter tensed, then forced himself to relax. He shrugged. “Probably never.”

“You don’t think that I had a right to know?”

“He’s my mate, not yours.” 

“He’s my son.” 

“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” Peter said. “You always think that you can control everyone, that you have some right to everything—”

“I’m your Alpha,” Talia said. 

“My Alpha was my mother,” Peter said. “And you stole her from me too, just like you’re doing again. Whatever you did to Derek, whatever you did to _my mate_ , fix it.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“Derek deserves a chance to live his own life,” Talia said. “And I know what you’re like, Peter. Once you get your claws in something, you never let go.” 

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.” 

“I’m doing what’s best for all of us, Peter, can’t you see that?”

“You’re stealing what’s mine again—”

“Peter—”

Peter didn’t wait to hear any more. All that banked anger blazed up in a flash, fierce, hot heat, and he lunged at Talia. The papers went flying, the desk splintering when Talia met him head on. Peter wasn’t ready— he had thought about challenging Talia before, but not like this. Not in the heat of the moment, desperate to protect what he had left, because he couldn’t let Talia take anyone else from him again. 

He lost, of course. In the end, he was still a beta, and Talia had the backing of her pack and years of experience as an alpha. 

“Alan,” she said. She had Peter pinned down by the throat, claws digging into his skin. 

Deaton moved from the corner of the room he had been in. Peter had forgotten he was there. He started to thrash, trying to throw Talia off, heedless of her claws. “Don’t! Talia, don’t, I swear, I’ll never forgive you if you do—”

“It’s necessary, Peter. You’ll understand one day.” 

Then all Peter knew was blackness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It was a quiet, boring holiday that left Peter glad to be back on his way to school. 

He stopped going back to Beacon Hills as much. When he thought about it, he couldn’t remember why he went back like clockwork before when he didn’t even particularly enjoy his visits, aside from seeing Andrew and a vague fondness towards his plethora of family, most of which centered on Derek. But they were years apart in age, and Peter was busy after graduation with his new job. 

They drifted apart, but that too, Peter supposed, was natural.

Then the fire happened.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He supposed that it was the fact that Derek had been the one to rip his throat out the reason why Derek was less than pleased to see him following his resurrection. Knocking him out with wolfsbane might have had something to do with it too, but what was a little murder and mayhem between family?

Sometimes he wasn’t sure why he stayed. The smart thing to do after coming back from the dead after your nephew killed you was to leave town. Find a new pack, maybe a new alpha to kill or a different pack to join. But something kept him here. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to leave Derek. Maybe it was because he was his only remaining family, and no matter how hurt and angry he had been when he realised that Derek and Laura had left him behind in Beacon Hills, he understood that Derek was only following his Alpha. A werewolf without a pack was both in danger and a danger. 

Or in the case of their current pack, endangered. 

Peter and Derek burst into the loft. His shirt was badly shredded, hanging off of him in tatters, much like the skin on his chest. Damn Deucalion and his overcompensating, ridiculous thing of an _Alpha Pack_ — 

He ripped the remainder of his shirt off of him, wincing. Derek was doing the same, and Peter looked him over. He was already healing, unlike Peter. Perks of being an alpha. Neither of them said anything, the air filled with shaky breathing, and Peter’s hiss of pain as he staunched the blood with his shirt. He wiped the worst of it off of his skin and claimed the shower first. 

“When did you get that tattoo?” Derek asked when Peter came back, still shirtless. 

Peter paused in his rummaging of the cupboards, looking for the first aid kit he had stashed here. “What are you talking about?” 

“That.” Derek came up behind him. 

Peter tensed. He was the most vulnerable he had been in front of Derek since, well. Since his darling nephew tore his throat out. But Derek didn’t do anything other than touch the middle of his back, right between his shoulder blades, index finger tracing a pattern over skin that Peter couldn’t see. Peter shuddered. He twisted like a cat, knocking Derek’s hand from him, trying to see what he was talking about. 

He couldn’t see it from his angle. A crawling sensation traveled over his skin, and he strode away, back into the washroom. 

The mirror was still fogged up. He wiped it clean. There was the reflection of his bare back, with the triskelion tattooed right between his shoulder blades, ink dark and crisp. 

He had absolutely no memory of it. Another thing Talia stole from him, no doubt. 

“Peter?” Derek asked.

Peter whirled around and shrugged. “I don’t know. A gift from Talia, I suppose.” 

Derek looked like he wanted to say something, but held it back. Instead, he turned around. There, on his back, was the same tattoo. 

“I don’t remember when I got it either.” 

“Well, you can blame your mother for that, I’m sure,” Peter said. He didn’t let the disquiet show on his features. 

“Mom wouldn’t.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Peter said. 

Derek went quiet. He had nothing to say. 

Peter left the washroom and sat down at the kitchen table. He looked at the cuts on his chest blankly. Derek sat down across from him. He pulled out gauze and alcohol wipes and dragged his chair closer to Peter, who didn’t protest as Derek cleaned him up. The sting from the alcohol was refreshing. They didn’t bother to bandage them. The cuts would close up in a day or so. 

Derek’s injuries were already closing. Peter cleaned them. When he was done, he ran his fingers over Derek’s back, over the tattoo. He leaned in for a better look. 

The ink was black and seemingly solid. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t as solid as it seemed. Instead, it was made up of dense lines of runes, tattooed with almost no gap in between. They were too small to make out. Spellwork. What for? And why on both of them? Peter fished his phone out from his jeans. The screen was cracked, but it turned on. He took a picture of it. 

Peter put his phone away. Between the Alpha Pack and this new discovery, he had his hands full. 

“Peter?” Derek said. 

Peter reached up and squeezed the nape of Derek’s neck, the gesture automatic and familiar. Derek flinched, and Peter let him go like he’d been burned. The throb of Derek's blood had been just below the surface, running hot from the exertion and excitement. 

For a moment, Peter had wanted to sink his claws in and rip. He didn't know why he stopped himself. Derek was never meant to be the Alpha, not like Peter, who had that stolen from him not once, but twice now. But he couldn't do it. No matter what Derek thought him capable of, he couldn't do it. 

“I don’t know,” he said. His headache was coming to fruition, a dull pounding behind his eyes. “I’ll— I’ll see what I can find. In the meantime, stay out of trouble. Don’t go looking for the Alpha Pack.” 

Derek stared at him. 

“What?” Peter said. 

“They’re looking for someone who’s willing to kill their pack,” Derek said. 

Peter didn’t even blink. “Well, that’s both of us, isn’t it?”

Derek flinched again in the manner of a puppy who’d been kicked. Peter didn’t feel any satisfaction from the reaction, only a visceral weariness. 

“I’ve been helping you,” he said. “I’m on your side, believe it or not. The last thing I want is to see you die by Deucalion’s hands.” 

“Then prove it,” Derek said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“We should run,” he told Derek, after one of those many meetings trying to find Erica and Boyd. 

“Not without Boyd and Erica.” 

“Derek, they’re either dead by now, or they will be. That’ll be you if you stay.” 

Sometimes Derek would look swayed. Most of the time he just set his jaw and shook his head. 

Peter would have to come up with a different solution.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Peter had met Deucalion, before he went insane and full on comic book villain, _Demon Wolf_ and _Alpha of Alphas_ or whatever he was calling himself nowadays. He used to be a reasonable man. But power could make even the most level-headed, kind man into something else entirely. He didn’t bother entertaining the possibility of reasoning with Deucalion. 

The question was, would Deucalion buy the possibility of Peter being conniving enough to try and deal with him? 

Considering that he agreed to meet with Peter, the answer seemed to be yes. Peter was unsurprised. He had a reputation. 

“I’ll kill Derek and join your pack,” he said without preamble. 

Deucalion hummed, thoughtful. The tap of his cane echoed down the alley. Peter kept his breathing slow and relaxed, determined to stay composed. 

“And why would you do that?” Deucalion said finally. 

Peter arched an eyebrow. “For the power, of course. Because I was always meant to be the alpha instead of Talia, or Laura who left me to _rot_ for six years.”

“Fair enough. I assume you have a plan.” 

Peter told him the plan.

Neither of them noticed the figure slipping out of sight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“I have a plan,” he told Derek. They were at the loft again, Erica and Boyd and _Cora_ retrieved, which neither of them believed possible, but there she was, in the flesh. Alive and whole and a young woman. No less ferocious than she was when she was younger. Cora was asleep, tucked upstairs in the guest bedroom. 

Derek’s frown deepened. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “Let’s hear it.” 

“A lunar eclipse will be happening next week. Every werewolf will lose their abilities temporarily, for roughly the amount of time the eclipse lasts. That will be our opening.” He noticed Derek wasn’t listening and said sharply. “Derek.”

“You really don’t remember anything?” Derek said. 

“What are you talking about?”

“The tattoos.” Derek’s eyebrows were reaching peak broodiness. 

“I told you I don’t,” Peter said. “It can wait until we’re done with this.”

“You weren’t surprised about what Mom did.”

“Talia and I never saw eye to eye.” 

“You used to be my best friend,” Derek said. “I remember I missed you so much when you went away to college.” 

“I remember,” Peter said, soft. Because he did remember Derek clinging to him the day he was left, sobbing and refusing to be consoled. 

“But you always brought me presents when you came back.” 

“Well, you were my favourite nephew. What are you getting at, Derek?”

“I saw you meeting with Deucalion. I heard everything.” 

Peter paused. He said, "You were following me." 

Derek said nothing.

"One of the smarter things you've done," Peter said. 

"So you admit it. You were meeting with Deucalion."

"You saw it with your own two eyes," Peter said, examining his nails. "But if you think I meant to double cross you, you're wrong. Do I need to remind you again that I've been trying to keep you alive this entire time?"

"Or you're waiting for me to mess up." 

"You're my nephew," Peter said, "my pack.You're all I have left, and you think I'd kill you? I should be the one who's suspicious here— after all, you've already killed me once before. You could do it again."

"That wasn't— I had to, you were insane. You killed Laura." 

Peter shrugged. He didn't feel much when it came to Laura's blood on his hands other than a vague sense of righteousness. “Like you said, I wasn't in my right mind. Now, back to the plan. I can skip the boring details since you were there. Deucalion thinks I’ll be betraying you, but it’ll be the other way around. We turn the tables on him last minute.”

“How can I trust you?” 

“You don’t have a choice.” 

They stared at each other over the coffee table, that marble green of Derek's against Peter's blue. Derek’s eyes go red, and Peter’s flare blue in reply. He didn’t quite tip his head back and bare his neck, but he angled it just a bit. Derek must be satisfied by that. 

“After this is over,” he said, “there’s something I want to try.” 

“What?” Peter asked.

Derek shifted in his seat, discomfort crossing his face. He never had much of a poker face. 

“I think whatever Mom took from you was important, and the tattoos have to do with it too.” 

All Peter could hear for a moment was a roaring in his ears, fading into the rapid pound of his heartbeat. He dug his claws into his palm, the sharp sting of blood peaking and fading in his nose. 

Derek reached over, grabbing Peter’s wrist. He said, “Stop that, Peter.”

Peter didn’t try to break free. 

“I’ll trust you,” Derek said finally. 

The weight of his words almost made Peter feel bad for what he was going to do.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It was freezing the night of the lunar eclipse, and a full moon. A dark shadow was cast over the surface, red covering most of it. The light filtered through the Earth's atmosphere and reflected onto the moon always turned bloody. Or if you were a romantic, the red was from the thousands of sunsets and sunrises around the Earth. What a useless fact to remember when he had forgotten so much else.

Derek was beside him, and Cora sticking to Derek’s other shoulder. Fitting, how things had finally come full circle. The final Hales left on the land about to make a stand. 

Deucalion came with Kali in tow. The twins were preoccupied by the rest of the pack, as arranged. The distillery was dark aside, no light to filter in through the spiral carved in the wall. 

Tension was thick in the air. 

“Deucalion,” Peter said. 

“Peter,” Deucalion said, blind gaze unmoving. “Derek. And Cora too. Lovely, the whole family.” 

Cora was a mass of coiled muscle, and Derek wasn’t much better. He growled Deucalion’s name out, a grumble like thunder. 

There was a moment of impasse. The lunar eclipse was in full swing. None of them had the shift left at their disposal. Peter glanced at his watch, a sideways flick of his eyes that was nearly imperceptible. Five more minutes left of the eclipse. 

He leapt on Derek, but Derek, who was waiting for it, wrestled him back. Cora screamed, the sound of it strangely human and piercing. 

Deucalion and Kali converged on them. Cora cut Kali off. 

Five minutes. All Peter had to do was stall for five minutes. 

Without their abilities, this became a test of natural ability. Derek was losing ground, though Cora was holding her own admirably. Peter curbed himself. It wasn’t Derek’s fault that he had been living during a period of relative peace, and as a result, the pack had relaxed its training to the bare minimum. 

Deucalion lunged for Derek. Peter deliberately tripped him, and all three of them went down in a flurry of limbs. 

One more minute. 

They rolled. Derek managed to pin Deucalion down for a heartbeat, knocking the sunglasses from his eyes. They were marred with scar tissue and swirled milky white and red. 

“Peter,” Deucalion barked. 

Peter’s head snapped up. He scrambled up to his feet from where he had been flung, dirt collecting under his fingernails. Thirty seconds. 

He hit the floor, knees jolting from the impact. Deucalion flung Derek off, but Derek surged forth, and Peter joined, pinning Deucalion back down. 

The lunar eclipse ended. 

Deucalion’s eyes bled red. Derek lunged, but Peter got there. He was faster, always had been. He tore Deucalion’s throat out in a spray of blood, digging deep, ignoring the score of Deucalion’s claws along his thigh, and Derek’s strangled noise. 

The power leaped into him, crashing like a wave. He shuddered. Around him, in him, the world righted itself. Something loosened in him, crumbling and burning to ash under the alpha spark. He didn’t remember. Those memories were gone, stolen forever, but what should have been there before was no longer locked away. 

He opened his eyes. They burnt red, and he met Derek’s eyes, which glowed in return. He wanted to touch Derek, bite him, claim him properly like he should have years ago, were it not for his meddling sister. 

But Cora roared from behind them, a cry of loud pain. Derek and Peter ran towards her, tackling Kali. Derek dug his claws into her throat, and she sputtered, head dropping to the ground. 

Silence. 

The Hales looked at each other. They were blood-spattered and wild-eyed, but alive. Derek was watching Peter warily, and Peter couldn’t blame him. 

He beckoned to Derek. 

Derek edged towards him, slow. Too slow. Peter closed the distance between, seizing him and burying his face against his neck, scenting him. Took deep lungfuls of his scent, the rightness of it. His mate, here. At last. 

“Mine,” he growled. 

“Peter,” Derek breathed, trailing off into a whine. He was practically burrowing himself against Peter, hands clutching him. 

Peter rubbed his cheek against his face, feeling the rasp of stubble catching, but he didn’t care. It was like the veil had finally been lifted from his eyes. He couldn’t stop himself from turning his head and kissing Derek. 

It was slick and a little bloody, but right in a way that Peter couldn’t explain. They were two ends reuniting into full circle, complete once more. Derek moaned against his lips, pliant and eager and Peter snuck his hands under Derek’s shirt, thumbs grazing over warm skin and muscle. 

Cora cleared her throat out loudly from behind them. “Sorry,” she said. “But what the hell is going on?”

They broke apart. Peter was smiling; he couldn’t seem to help himself. Derek grinned back at him, a bashful thing. He ducked his head. 

Peter turned to Cora, and said, “Well, it’s a long story.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They were alone in the loft. Cora had taken one look at them and rolled her eyes, saying she would be back later. Little hellion. 

“You already knew,” Peter said to Derek. They were curled up on the bed, legs tangled together, arms thrown over each other. Derek kept nuzzling him every few minutes, beard scraping over the curve of Peter’s cheek, or his jaw, or his neck. Peter didn’t stop him— he was doing it too. “Since when?” And why hadn’t Peter?

Derek shrugged. He didn’t say anything until Peter squeezed his hip, and then he admitted, “When I killed you. I don’t know why, or how though.” 

“The shock of the loss, maybe. I don’t think the bond was ever truly gone— it takes a lot to break one— or maybe the power surge you gained from the spark tore it to pieces.” 

They could linger on past regrets and wrongs all night, on how maybe Peter would have been more stable after the fire had Derek stuck around and the bond been a live thing between them; the hurt and regret Derek must have felt right after he tore Peter’s throat out and realised what he had done. How maybe Derek would have never fallen for Kate Argent if Peter had been there, ever watchful and jealous and possessive. 

And when Peter looked at Derek, he took in all the changes in him with fresh eyes, tried to reconcile the boy he knew with the man in front of him. Derek used to be so scrawny. He had missed them, the years in between when Derek grew. 

He should have been the one to give Derek his first kiss, teach him how to relax against a warm, willing body, lean in in a gentle meeting of lips. The first to watch Derek come apart. He would have been sweet, and he should have been Peter’s. (Was that why he had interfered with Paige, unable to keep himself from machinating?) Maybe Talia was right about Derek deserving a chance to live his own life. Peter had, after all. 

But Peter was also nothing if not selfish. 

“Hey.”

Derek’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “Mm?”

“What are you thinking about?”

“My five year plan,” Peter told him, “and how I’ll have to adjust it accordingly now.” 

“That’s what you’re thinking about?” 

“What else would I be thinking about?”

Derek shook his head. “God, you’re so- so— ” 

“Use your words, Derek.” 

Derek growled and pounced. He pinned Peter down beneath him, hands framing his face. They were warm. The exhale of his breath was sweet, and Peter smirked at him because it would irritate him. Peter palmed the back of Derek’s head, and rose up part way to meet his lips, growing smile hidden against the curve of his mouth. 

No more regrets. He could never recover those memories or the time stolen from him, but the future was looking bright. Three Hales left in Beacon Hills, two of them alphas, one beta but no less precious— it was enough. They would recover, and they would be all right. 

No, was Peter’s final thought as he tussled Derek against the sheets, they would be more than all right. 

They would be great.


End file.
